


Hypothetically, I Love You

by moprocrastinates



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Pining!Bellamy, best friends Bellarke, drunk!bellamy, it's 2am and I'm very drunk and I'm making declarations, pining!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:30:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7545118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moprocrastinates/pseuds/moprocrastinates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hypothetically, I love you." </p><p>|| Or, the one where Clarke pines, and Bellamy makes drunken declarations. ||</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in her eyes

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, before I add my notes about this particular fic, I want to thank any and everyone who nominated ["love is what makes the ride worthwhile" ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7207745) for the Most Underrated Oneshot at the Bellarke Fanfiction Awards... Seriously. I can't wrap my head around that. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU. <3

She gets the call around 2am. 

Her bed’s comfy and warm, a far cry from the frozen tundra it is outside, and Clarke’s pretty sure, taking into account her current level of exhaustion, that she’s going to end up being one of those people on _My Strange Addition_ who marries their bed. 

Her blankets are wrapped around her legs, twisted into some convoluted, intricate mess that will take forever to untangle. Blond hair sticks to the sides of her lips and dips a little into her mouth, and there are lines from the wrinkles in her sheets against her forearm. Clarke’s a restless enough sleeper as it is, so the stupidly obnoxious ringtone Bellamy had picked for himself – Right Said Fred’s _I’m Too Sexy_ — causes her eyes to fly open, and she jerks up in bed, hand pressing the sheets against her chest. She’s going to have nightmares about Right Said Fred, she’s sure of it. 

The ringtone plays again, and after two notes, Clarke throws herself back down with a groan and contentedly buries her head back into her MemoryFoam pillow. “Mhmm, no, Bell.” She tells the air around her, eyelids drooping shut as she nuzzles her pillow. “Later.” 

It rings twice more, and then silences. Clarke’s just about to drift back into slumber, warm and sleepy, when it begins ringing again.

She rolls over, deciding immediately to ignore the call again— after all, he’s the only person who would dare to call her at this hour (she’s a monster without her sleep), and she’d really rather not listen to his Drunk History recaps over the phone. Bellamy’s a night owl, often staying up into the wee hours of the morning because his attention has been captured by some book or movie or TV show or ignorant internet troll, and Clarke knows that if she answers, she’ll be rewarding bad behavior. 

Suck on that, Pavlov. 

But as soon as it stops ringing, it starts for the third time. 

This time, it hasn’t even rung twice before she’s sloppily flailing her hand in the direction of her nightstand, grabbing her phone with three fingers and yanking it to her ear.

He’s dead to her. 

“Uh, ‘lo, Bell. Next time, give a girl some warning, ‘kay?” Clarke yawns, halfheartedly pushing a lock of hair out of her face. There’s silence on the other end, perhaps only for a beat, when a loud voice forces her to jerk the phone away from her ear. 

“PRINCESS!” 

Oh, God. Bellamy. 

_Drunk_ Bellamy. 

This is worse than Drunk History Bellamy. 

“Hey, Bell.” She says, awake and alert, his slurring like a bucket of cold water to her sleepy mind. Bellamy can usually handle his alcohol, so for him to call her must mean that something’s up. 

“Uh, hi?” A woman’s voice is coming from the other end, and Clarke blinks, pulls the phone back from her ear to check the caller ID, and then returns. “Is this, uh, Princess?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m Clarke.” 

“Hi, yeah, it’s Echo from the Dropship.” Clarke sighs, already knows where this is going. 

“We have a Bellamy Blake in here, and he’s completely smashed. He told me he’s lost his keys, and then to call the Princess. I was wondering if you were still up and could give him a ride home. We’re closing in half an hour.”

She’s already up and yanking on a pair of pajama bottoms when she answers Echo. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be there in a few.” 

Stumbling out to her car, Clarke nearly wipes out— it’s pitch black, freezing cold, and she didn’t see the ice— leaving a giant smear of black something along her pants, and she curses.

“The things I do for you, Bellamy.” She snorts, rubbing her hands together to get some heat while her heater warms up. Rationally, she knows there’s not a whole lot at this point that she _won’t_ do for him. That’s what love is, after all. 

To this day, she’s not really sure when or how she fell in love with Bellamy. But, to be fair, it definitely wasn’t love at first sight— or, rather, love at first fight. Bellamy had come with Octavia to see her old roommate who had just moved into the city, and Clarke was initially just happy to have a familiar face around. But Bellamy, ever the overprotective big brother he was, stormed into Clarke’s new apartment, swearing up and down that O would _never_ be coming over to this neighborhood, no matter how much money Clarke waved in her face. It took Clarke all of .2 seconds before immediately launching on her own tirade, watching as the elder Blake’s brown eyes quelled their fire, and from then on, there was a sort of peace. Bellamy still didn’t let Octavia walk over alone to Clarke’s, so he spent more and more time with her. (Time, for the sake of her own sanity, that was actually spent arguing.)

After a few months, Bellamy and Clarke were friends, and the Blakes’ friend group had merged with Clarke’s coworkers, and overall, everything was okay. Bellamy was protective, as it turned out, of literally everyone, Clarke included. The first time he’d snapped at her about walking home alone, Clarke was stunned into silence. He’d quietly offered to walk her home later, after an evening of frustrated glances and sharp tongues shared between them, and she took it. The walk itself was quiet, with Bellamy pressing close to her every time they crossed a road or passed an alley, and it wasn’t until they reached her doorstep that she noticed that his presence was a steady comfort, his scent musky with a hint of cinnamon, and she thought, _oh no._

It’d been a while since Lexa, and an even longer while since Finn, and while her mind considered Bellamy one of her closest friends, her heart seemed to disagree with her. 

For months, her heart and mind were at war, each growing more and more polarized from the other with every interaction she had with Bellamy, until one evening, Clarke sighed to Octavia with a somber expression on her face as she was headed out the door. “I’m in love with Bellamy.” 

Octavia had laughed, no, _cackled,_ responded with a “Duh,” and went on her merry way. 

It’s been seven months since she told Octavia, and she still hasn’t told him. 

Clarke tries to not let the panic settle into her heart as she makes the short drive to the Dropship. Rationally, she knows that Bellamy is a grown man who should know how to manage his drinks, and that he probably has a very good reason for going out and getting as skunk-drunk as he is. 

Probably. 

She does a shitty job parking, staunchly ignoring the catcalls from others leaving the bar, and stomps in, feeling a little bit ridiculous to have shown up to pick up her best friend in pajama bottoms and a _Star Wars_ t-shirt.

But as soon as she spots him, her heart does a little dance, and she really, really doesn’t ever want to have feelings again. 

Bellamy’s slouched over the bar, chattering animatedly to a dirty blond that Clarke can only assume is Echo. She waves at her as she approaches, and Echo nods, disappearing through a doorway after coyly pointing behind Bellamy.

Oh, how his smile will kill her.

“Clllarrrkkkeee.” Bellamy drawls, his entire face lighting up when he spots her. “I knew you’d come! Princess!” 

She thanks whatever supreme beings there are that he’s definitely not sober enough to see the fiery red blush that swamps her cheeks. “Of course I would, Bell.” 

He beams at her, and there’s a moment before she can regain her breath. Jesus. 

“Hey, Bell,” she starts, wrapping her hand around his bicep and mentally fighting the urge to squeeze it. Bellamy’s looking at her hand on his arm, his eyebrows furrowed, and she can’t help but think that Bellamy’s the cutest drunk she’s ever seen. “They’re starting to close up, and you don’t wanna be in their way, right?”

Clarke knows Bellamy, perhaps better than herself, and if there’s one thing he hates, it’s overstaying his welcome in any sort of business, especially when it’s nearing closing time. Sober Bellamy will go on rampages about his time as a retail worker while trying to support Octavia, and while drunk Bellamy doesn’t always remember the details in the correct order, his passion certainly never drains. 

It works like a charm— Bellamy’s eyes widen, and he nearly drops his bottle of beer (thankfully, Clarke catches it before it hit the ground). 

“Time to go?” He asks, and in one single second, he’s gone from beautiful Bellamy to little boy Bellamy, and Clarke really can’t tell which one is worse for her heart.

So she nods. “Yeah, sweetie, it’s time.”

He jolts up, clocking her in the chin with his elbow. “I’M SORRY.” Bellamy announces to the few patrons and staff members left (who all give him slightly amused looks), and it’s then that Clarke notices that he’s wearing her favorite shirt on him, a dark blue thing that only emphasizes his arms and draws some drool from her mouth when they’re out in public together. 

Geez. She’s human, okay? THOSE ARMS. 

But before she can get him to move, he’s grabbing the beer from her and draining it where he stands. Then he smiles adorably at her, and her heart thumps.

“Clarke!” Bellamy slurs, his hand waving the now empty bottle of beer enthusiastically in the air. She sees that some of the amber liquid has fallen to the ground, sloshed over his hands, shoes, and shirt, and then Bellamy’s talking now, and she’s struggling to focus on him. It takes all of her physical strength to push him towards the door while he’s chattering away.

“I have a question.” He tells her, and she raises an eyebrow. They’re outside now, it’s fucking cold, she’s cranky and tired, but with the way Bellamy’s looking at her right now is starting to warm her insides.

“Let’s say,” Bellamy begins, exaggerating his S’s, “hypothetically—“

He giggles and shakes his head down at the sidewalk.

Clarke can count on one hand the times Bellamy Blake has giggled in front of her— so she’s automatically amused, feeling the corners of her lips quirk up. This can’t be anything bad— drunk Bellamy usually gives loud declarations of love to George Washington, argues with anyone he sees about the goodness of Severus Snape, cries a whole bunch about the Library of Alexandria, and quotes _Archer_.

It’s probably not bad, Clarke thinks, just as Bellamy lifts his head and says, “Hypothetically, I’m in love with someone.”

It’s as if she’s just stood under the Chutes de Khone for thirty million years, only the water is made of icicles and daggers. She promptly chokes, and Bellamy’s pressed against her, whacking her back and telling her to breathe. 

“What?” is all she can manage.

Bellamy’s earnest now, nodding, his brown eyes looking deeper and darker than she’s ever seen them. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I’m in love with someone, and she doesn’t know—“

“Bell—“ Clarke tries, but he barrels on. 

“Should I tell her? I mean, I love her, and I can’t imagine a future without her, and she’s beautiful and funny and weird and should I tell her?” He’s stumbling over his words, cocking his head at her, and it’s very reminiscent of a curious puppy dog.

The rock at the bottom of her stomach would probably argue otherwise, but she nods. “Uh, yeah, Bell. You should tell her, for sure, but maybe when you’re not so drunk that she can’t appreciate it, okay?”

He nods, staring at the sidewalk. “Mhmm.”

She gets him to the car before he speaks again, still slurring. “She’s the best person I know, and I just get so happy in my heart when I see her, you know? Her hair is so pretty and shiny, and she’s, gosh, Clarke.” 

“I know, sweetie.” Clarke says, biting her lip hard to keep her eyes from watering. God, he’s drunk, she really shouldn’t even be believing in anything he’s saying— “But let’s get you back to my apartment, okay? You can sleep on the sofa.”

He smiles softly at her, and then begins humming the _Jaws_ theme song. 

Okay— some of the panic lessens, simply because Bellamy’s drunk, and half of the stuff he says cannot be taken for truth. But despite being completely inebriated, he’s still the same old Bellamy, and she’s still the same old Clarke. He just happens to be in love, and she just happens to be in love with him. 

Bellamy rests his head on her shoulder as she’s turning back onto the highway, and within minutes, his soft snores are echoing through the small car, each one gently blowing a chunk of her hair side to side. She tries to focus on the road, strips of white glinting back at her from the yellow of her headlights, and in the darkness of the quiet, somber night, Clarke Griffin cries.


	2. in his eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s now more sure than ever that he obviously said something last night. Bellamy’s speechless, because Clarke has never not talked to him about anything, ever. She’s his best friend. 
> 
> Staring at her, Clarke staring determinedly at her pancakes as though they have the secret to life in them, Bellamy wants so much to tell her everything. 
> 
> By everything, he means how much, how deeply, how desperately he’s in love with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Here's the conclusion to _hypothetically, i love you_. 
> 
> P.S - Kudos and comments give me life. ;)

He wakes up with his arm hair in his mouth and drool lining the cushion around him. 

It’s mid-morning, he thinks, from the way the sun’s filtering in from in-between the blinds. Soft plushiness is below him, in front of him, and all around him, and while he’s certainly no detective, Bellamy’s pretty sure that it smells faintly of lemon and honey— Clarke’s signature scent. It’s only after the smell dances around in his nostrils for a few seconds that he notices that his head is pounding like a war drum. 

Groaning, he sits up, and almost immediately throws an arm over his eyes.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Clarke’s voice comes from somewhere nearby, slightly muffled just so that he knows she’s smiling. “Did you and my sofa enjoy your makeout session last night?”

He merely groans again in response and lifts his arm a bit to see a trail of dried saliva on the cushion where his head had been. Clarke sits in her favorite lumpy chair a few feet away, dainty hands holding a small cup of coffee. Her – _his_ – sweatshirt hangs loosely off of her frame, dipping low to give him a good show of her cleavage, and he can see the little mole that resides above her left breast. Flannel pajama pants cling to her legs, and she looks so warm and comfy that it’s no surprise to him that an urge to cuddle her surges through him.

When he blinks at her from under his arm, rouses from his thoughts, she’s smiling softly at him, and his heart constricts. 

Slowly, Bellamy completely removes his arm, but still recoils, eyebrows furrowed and a scowl etched on his face. “Jesus Christ, the sun’s out to kill me.” He blinks and rubs sleep from his eyes. 

Clarke snorts. “Somehow, I really don’t think that you’re the vampire in this relationship, Bell.” Nevertheless, she gets up and draws the blinds. “Want pancakes?”

“You’re gonna make them?” He asks, and she shoots him a glare.

“Believe it or not, I can cook things without burning them,” she says, and moves to the pantry to get the ingredients. 

He hears her rustling around, so he takes the time to head to the bathroom. When he opens the medicine cabinet, he manages a weak smile— Clarke keeps an extra toothbrush, a stick of deodorant, and some of his favorite facewash in there— but it’s only when he goes to splash water in his face that he smells his breath. 

It reeks of stale alcohol. 

_The Dropship. Seven beers. Echo. Love. Clarke. Car. Home. Clarke, Clarke, Clarke._ His memories from the previous night hit him all at once, and he suddenly feels the urge to throw up. 

“Bell!” He hears from the kitchen, and his heart goes into his throat, “Pancakes!”

Clarke has a stack of golden-brown pancakes on the counter when he shuffles back into the kitchen. “Do you want butter or orange marmalade?” She asks, and Bellamy freezes. Her head is ducked, her eyes averted, and she’s avoiding him. 

Why?

“You have orange marmalade?” It’s his favorite topping, and Clarke knows it. 

“Of course.” Reaching into the fridge, she pulls out the jar, and Bellamy’s eyes are glued to the movement of her princess-golden hair. 

Their hands brush when she passes it to him, and he can’t help himself. 

“What happened last night?” He blurts out, watching her carefully. There has to be something, because Clarke never avoids him unless he’s said something stupid to her. 

Thankfully, he already has his fingers wrapped around the marmalade, because Clarke jerks away as if she’d been burned. 

“Nothing.” She says, and sits down with a pile of pancakes. 

He’s now more sure than ever that he obviously said _something_ last night. Bellamy’s speechless, because Clarke has never not talked to him about anything, _ever_. She’s his best friend. 

Staring at her, Clarke staring determinedly at her pancakes as though they have the secret to life in them, Bellamy wants so much to tell her everything. 

By everything, he means how much, how deeply, how _desperately_ he’s in love with her. 

To say that they got along at their first meeting is a definite bit of an overstatement. He’d be terrified when Octavia graduated college, starting a new job in the city in the following month, and told him that she’d be moving out. His fears became even more heightened when she’d followed up with, “And Clarke’s moved in town, too!”

Bellamy knew of Clarke, of course, her having been Octavia’s roommate for the past three years, but he didn’t _know_ her. He didn’t know that she was a huge Star Wars fan, that she preferred tea over coffee, that she could snap with her middle finger on her right hand but only with her ring finger on her left. He didn’t know about her dip into drugs after her dad died, or about her shitty relationship with her mother. He didn’t know what she looked like when sleepy, what her eyes looked like when she cried, or what her laugh sounded like. 

All he knew was that she was a threat to his relationship with Octavia, and especially so when he came with O to see Clarke in her new apartment. He immediately snarled at her, saying that “O would never be coming over, no matter how much money you wave in her face,” and thinking she was the pretty, meek, pushover princess he imagined her to be. 

(Octavia yelled at him and kicked his ass later for that.) 

But just as the last word left his lips, he saw a fire light behind the entrancing blue eyes he suddenly found himself lost in, and Clarke snarled back, “Too bad I don’t have any money to wave in her face, asshole.” 

From then on, the waters calmed between them, and Bellamy found himself gravitating towards her at every party they both attended on behalf of Octavia. Sure, they still argued like hellacious cats and demonic dogs, but each time, he swore he would see a twinkle in her eyes, or a small smile grace her face, and it wasn’t until a few months into their friendship that she leaned into him, pressing a smile into his shoulder, that he thought _oh no_.

He was in love with Clarke Griffin.

The agony was, for the longest time, one of the hardest things he’d had to deal with in his life, and he’d dealt with foster homes, abusive foster parents, and the fear of losing Octavia. Bellamy didn’t want to love Clarke; in fact, he still regards it as one of the stupidest things that his head and heart ever agreed on, but she would walk into the room, and all thoughts against loving her would immediately disappear. He had no one to tell, because, quite frankly, the dynamic of their friend group seemed to thrive on the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ relationship he and Clarke had going on. Telling Octavia seemed like a bad idea, too— he was 99.9% sure she had a large sum of money riding on what she called ‘Bellarke.’

Well, then, his brain and his heart asked, who else should you tell? 

Clarke. 

By now, they were best friends, and Bellamy was so desperate for her that he was suddenly finding ways to touch her, to compliment her, to tell in her subtle ways that he was in love with her, and she wasn’t picking them up.

Or so he thought. 

And that was how last night, he’d ended up at the Dropship. 

Now, staring at her, Bellamy’s heart beats a little faster. 

“Clarke,” he says, determined now. “Did I say something?”

He watches as she tenses under his hand on her shoulder. “No, Bellamy,” Clarke says, her tone steely, but Bellamy senses an undercurrent of anger in it. 

“You sure?” He presses, and it’s then that she stands up, whirls around to face him.

“Dammit, Bellamy!” Clarke yells. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?” Her blue eyes might as well be burning a hole in him.

He blinks, watches her as her chest rises up and down, trying to keep up with her heavy breathing. “What did I say, Clarke?”

She seems to soften at that, but not in the way that comforts him. Instead, she heads over and sits down on the couch. He follows her. 

It’s a moment or two before she speaks, and he can see her decision to trust him before she does. “You gave me a hypothetical situation, but you were drunk, and we both know that when you’re drunk, every hypothetical you give is a truth. Bell, you said you were in love with someone.” 

Bellamy tenses. “Did I say who, specifically?”

“No!” Clarke says, but this time, it’s almost a sob. “But I don’t want to know, Bell. I can’t know, because it’ll just break my heart.” 

He thinks his heart might come out of his mouth. “Clarke—“

“Bell, I love you. I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you that I can’t always see straight.” Clarke is pleading now. “If you love me in any way, please don’t tell me who you’re in love with. I don’t think I can handle it.”

Two steps forward, and his hands are around her face, he’s brushing her bottom lip with his thumb, and her big blue eyes are staring him down.

“I can’t not tell you, or I’ll lose my mind,” Bellamy murmurs, desperately trying to find what he’s looking for in her eyes. “Clarke, I’m in love with _you_.”

She stares at him, mouth slightly open, and as if to remind her that this is real, his love for her is indeed real, he gently makes circles with his thumb on her cheek. “Clarke, I love you.” He says again. 

Then she surges up, her lips connect with his, and it’s all over.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A few hours later, when Bellamy wakes up in bed next to a naked Clarke, he smiles and buries his face in her hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my story! Comment and/or click that 'kudos' button if you like/love/felt something about it. 
> 
> My [tumblr.](http://www.moprocrastinates.tumblr.com)


End file.
